Hound Transformers Quotes

Books help to form us. If you cut me open, you will find volume after volume, page after page, the contents of every one I have ever read, somehow transmuted and transformed into me. Alice in Wonderland. the Magic Faraway Tree. The Hound of the Baskervilles. The Book of Job. Bleak House. Wuthering Heights. The Complete Poems of W H Auden. The Tale of Mr Tod. Howard''s End. What a strange person I must be. But if the books I have read have helped to form me, then probably nobody else who ever lived has read exactly the same books, all the same books and only the same books as me. So just as my genes and the soul within me make me uniquely me, so I am the unique sum of the books I have read. I am my literary DNA.

The miracle of hindsight is how it transforms great military geniuses of the past into incompetent idiots, and incompetent idiots of the present into great military geniuses. There is the door, and be sure to take all your pompous second-guessing delusions with you…’ Emperor Kellanved On the occasion of the conquest of Falari's Grand Council (the Trial of Crust)

Those that men call Werewolves or Lycanthropes call themselves the Hounds of God, as they claim their transformation is a gift from their creator, and they repay the gift with their tenacity, for they will pursue an evildoer to the very gates of Hell.

I came to regard my body in a new light. For the first time I apprehended the little mounds on my chest as teats for the suckling of young, and their physical resemblance to udders on cows or the swinging distensions on lactating hounds was suddenly unavoidable. Funny how even women forget what breasts are for. The cleft between my legs transformed as well. It lost a certain outrageousness, an obscenity, or achieved an obscenity of a different sort. The flaps seemed to open not to a narrow, snug dead end, but to something yawning. The passageway itself became a route to somewhere else, a real place, and not merely to a darkness in my mind. The twist of flesh in front took on a devious aspect, its inclusion overtly ulterior, a tempter, a sweetener for doing the species' heavy lifting, like the lollipops I once got at the dentist.

The thought that something we cannot see, of unsurpassable skill and unimaginable form, exists in the back room’s locked safe—isn’t this, for any artist, for any person, an irresistible hope, beautiful and disturbing as the distant baying of Thoreau’s lost hound that tells us, not least, that the mysteries of distance are endless?

[…] a given text may seem fictional or actual depending on the context in which we encounter it. The same is true for oral performances. [Thomas] Pavel takes the example of a theatrical scene wherein an actor mimics the gestures of a priest and pretends to bless the audience. There is nothing effective about this blessing in most contexts, but it can become effective in certain circumstances: imagine, for example, a dictatorship in which religion is banned and in which a theater audience, having kept the old faith, experiences the actor’s gesture as authentic, transforming this fictional scene in a scene of real life.

The prophet Ezekiel said, “I will take out of your flesh the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” This is the experience the apostle Paul had after his encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus. It radically changed his outlook on life, and he received baptism. God transformed his heart! However, only think: a persecutor, a man who hounded out the Church and Christians, a man who became a saint, a Christian to the marrow, a genuine Christian! First he was a violent persecutor, then he became an apostle, a witness of Jesus Christ so brave that he was not afraid of suffering martyrdom. In the end, the Saul who wanted to kill those who proclaimed the Gospel gave his own life to proclaim it.

BESTIARY " charybdis: when i suck in / i make deadly / whirlpools / ask anyone who’s managed / to climb out / alive dragon: patrol or pillage / he exhales and a whole village / burns / iron scaled sentry / guardian of the ivory / tower i wrap my legs around / everyone thinks / he’s a brute / but for me / he lifts his breast plate / for me he welcome the quiver / and the arrow’s teeth. golem: take his hair in your hands / his dead / skin cells / his discarded undergarments / take them / and make of them a new boy this effigy / his likeness and nothing / like him / breathe life into its clenched carapace // my god / i think i saw it / move medusa: when i saw / my face / reflected in terror / in his eyes / i turned to stone / or a pillar of salt watching my village burn / he was the village burning / maybe that’s a different story / maybe in the end only the snakes wept siren: he cries / and i / lashed to the mast of a ship / steer my body toward the sound / sheets bound around wrists and ankles tears make grief / a lighthouse you wear / when i hear him a huge wood wheel turns in my stomach / and i break / open on / his jagged coast werewolf: there are many words for transformation / metamorphosis metaphor / medication / go to sleep / beside the man you love wake up next to a dog / maybe the moon brought it out of him hound hungry for blood / maybe its your fault / or maybe it was there inside him / howling all along

When a middle school teacher in San Antonio, Texas, named Rick Riordan began thinking about the troublesome kids in his class, he was struck by a topsy-turvy idea. Maybe the wild ones weren’t hyperactive; maybe they were misplaced heroes. After all, in another era the same behavior that is now throttled with Ritalin and disciplinary rap sheets would have been the mark of greatness, the early blooming of a true champion. Riordan played with the idea, imagining the what-ifs. What if strong, assertive children were redirected rather than discouraged? What if there were a place for them, an outdoor training camp that felt like a playground, where they could cut loose with all those natural instincts to run, wrestle, climb, swim, and explore? You’d call it Camp Half-Blood, Riordan decided, because that’s what we really are—half animal and half higher-being, halfway between each and unsure how to keep them in balance. Riordan began writing, creating a troubled kid from a broken home named Percy Jackson who arrives at a camp in the woods and is transformed when the Olympian he has inside is revealed, honed, and guided. Riordan’s fantasy of a hero school actually does exist—in bits and pieces, scattered across the globe. The skills have been fragmented, but with a little hunting, you can find them all. In a public park in Brooklyn, a former ballerina darts into the bushes and returns with a shopping bag full of the same superfoods the ancient Greeks once relied on. In Brazil, a onetime beach huckster is reviving the lost art of natural movement. And in a lonely Arizona dust bowl called Oracle, a quiet genius disappeared into the desert after teaching a few great athletes—and, oddly, Johnny Cash and the Red Hot Chili Peppers—the ancient secret of using body fat as fuel. But the best learning lab of all was a cave on a mountain behind enemy lines—where, during World War II, a band of Greek shepherds and young British amateurs plotted to take on 100,000 German soldiers. They weren’t naturally strong, or professionally trained, or known for their courage. They were wanted men, marked for immediate execution. But on a starvation diet, they thrived. Hunted and hounded, they got stronger. They became such natural born heroes, they decided to follow the lead of the greatest hero of all, Odysseus, and

Five hounds now, not four, Kit saw, and the fifth one white as starlight on snowdrifts, running strongly alongside the others, like an idealized alabaster statue rather than any real hound, even a transformed one.

I was going to make the little hound here part of your display, but you know, against all odds, I’ve found myself growing to like the little guy! You were going to be a girl transforming into a werewolf, but now I think you’ll be part of my Hansel & Gretel display. I needed a trespassing little snoop!

Retribution is not slow in coming,” I wrote in the Kornilov days. “Hounded, persecuted, slandered, our party never grew as rapidly as it is growing now. And this process will spread from the capitals to the provinces, from the towns to the country and the army . . . Without ceasing for a moment to be the class organization of the proletariat, our party will be transformed in the fire of persecution into a true leader of all the oppressed, downtrodden, deceived and hounded masses.

There were secrets in music and poetry. Secrets few knew and even fewer understood. Their power often stole into a listener subtle as the memory of scent on a drawn breath, less than a whisper, yet capable of transforming the one so gifted, an instinctual ecstasy that made troubles vanish, that made all manner of grandeur possible - indeed, within reach.

By the early 1900s, the remaining beleaguered red wolves interbred on a large scale with coyotes in the extreme southwestern portions of their range in central Texas and the Ozarks. These interspecies couplings were the metaphorical last gasp of their survival instinct. Some researchers think that it was only after red wolves had been largely eliminated from their historic range that coyotes crept eastward and claimed the transformed landscape, now empty of wolves, for their own. Coyotes proved much more resilient and adaptable by living near farms and even within towns and cities. In short, they tolerated and even thrived in close proximity to people, a habit that red wolves simply never acquired. By the time scientists noticed, there were nearly as many, if not more, red wolf-coyote hybrids on the landscape than there were pure red wolves. Yet, a few red wolves remained. They held the physical characteristics of the species, as far as we are able to determine them to have been. These animals retreated to the swamps and no-man’s-lands of far southeastern Texas and southwestern Louisiana. The last of their kind, they were pushed up against the Gulf of Mexico in coastal habitat too bug- and tick-laced for people to desire. Enough survived to give the species a new start, with the guiding hands of humans and science. But the rest - nearly a quarter or a continent’s worth of wolves and their pups - were lost to poisons, wolf hounds, traps, bullets, and dynamite. It’s mind-boggling to imagine how a large mammal that was once so widespread could be lost to near extinction in such a short time.

Gabriela’s brows scrunch together. “Yeah. I texted you about it yesterday.” Shoot. I turned on the Do Not Disturb setting because Mom kept hounding me with questions about my maid of honor speech. While I haven’t managed to write a sentence yet, Aiden’s best man, Luke Darling, already sent my mom a copy for her to approve. “Is Aiden joining us going to be a problem?” My sister asks in a somewhat strained tone. Mom’s gaze bounces between the two of us, accusatory as ever when it lands on me, silently demanding that I don’t cause a scene and ruin my sister’s day. “No,” I fight to transform my frown into a smile. “No issue at all.” It’s a lie, but thankfully, no one calls me out on it. To say things have been slightly awkward between my sister and me since she started dating my ex is an understatement, but then again, I haven’t helped matters either. Which is why you’re here, making an effort to be present and helpful before Gabriela’s wedding instead of avoiding everyone until right before the rehearsal dinner. My expression must ease my sister’s concerns because she quickly turns toward the restaurant’s front door. Her smile returns. “Oh good! Luke decided to come after all.” I was so distracted by my thoughts that I didn’t notice Luke strolling into the restaurant behind Aiden. Shit. My heart falters. “He’s here too?” Gabriela glances over at me. “He and Aiden had plans, so I invited him.” “Why?” The question accidentally slips out. I may have only spoken to Luke on four separate occasions, but it was enough. I’ve dated guys like him in the past, and it never ended